


A Rather Useless Inheritance

by Blood_Stained_Fingers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But my tone when writing is too serious, Crack-ish, Creature Inheritance, Derpy snakes, Getting Real Angsty, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kinship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Parselmouths, Parseltongue, Possibly Pre-Slash, Psychological Warfare, Snakes, Stockholm Syndrome, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27949034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blood_Stained_Fingers/pseuds/Blood_Stained_Fingers
Summary: Being a Parselmouth came with the inherent predisposition to understand snake behaviours and imitate them. It was relieving Harry wasn’t going to kill anyone with venom, nor petrify them with his gaze. But also, somewhat frustrating as it was all completely useless. None of the skills that came with being a Parselmouth would help Harry survive Voldemort.In might, in fact, have the opposite effect. For all Riddle's fury that Harry was the cause of his elder self’s defeat, he was fascinated by the fact Harry was also a Parselmouth. He had grabbed Harry’s face, turning him side to side looking bemusedly enraptured by Harry’s threat display. “At your age, I was imitating much more vicious snakes than this, Harry.”That may have been all well and good, but Harry didn’t feel very vicious. He felt very threatened and in over his head.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 189
Kudos: 1611
Collections: Kiiyuki Archive, Problematic but Beautiful





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I did this. There are quite a few Parselmouth creature inheritance fics out there now, which I really like, and think is super interesting, but they generally have really cool and dangerous abilities. And then my stupid brain went what about stuff that is pointless? There are plenty of things we have carried over from evolution that are useless to us now, so why not Parselmouths? So, presenting the fruit of that brainwave…
> 
> This started off as crack, but when I sit down to write, it's like a 50-year-old guy who takes himself very seriously takes over - so it got some gravitas very quickly.
> 
> As a side note, I would recommend looking up Eastern Hognose snakes - they are hilarious. When they're babies and they puff up, it's so cute.

Harry Potter was a huffy child.

It was an odd statement to write, and even odder to see.

From a young age, when upset or threatened, Harry would huff and puff. Bloating out his cheeks in his infantile fury.

It was cute when he was three - though his family did not seem to think so - but it was a little weird when he was eleven.

It wasn’t that Harry was doing it on purpose. It just happened.

Anytime he felt defensive or threatened, he would puff out his cheeks. Fortunately, it was often considered a sign of his frustration rather than anything too odd. Even though it would cause Aunt Petunia to narrow her eyes and scoff in frustration. Vernon would turn purple at the sight of it.

Dudley used to turn on the waterworks, but that could have been due to thinking Harry was mocking his weight.

The Dursleys at least took it as Harry Potter being a spoilt child, rather than weird or freakish, who was ungrateful for his cupboard and the meals he was taking directly away from their precious, _obese_ child.

On the contrary, Harry loved his cupboard; it was small, and it was dark and it was safe. Perfect for hiding. It wasn’t fair Dudley had two bedrooms, but there was something about the cupboard which appealed more than a great expanse of space.

Harry understood, years later, that his feelings towards being kept in a cupboard were probably not entirely how he _should_ have felt about the situation.

Harry had always had range of behaviours he didn’t fully understand, and as he grew more socialised when finally attending Hogwarts, he realised they were not entirely normal behaviours for wizards either.

It turned out that wizards didn’t eat raw eggs whole (they had a range of boiled eggs from soft to hard, but no raw ones. And like the Dursley’s the students ate them with cutlery, and some dipped toast or sausages in the yolk.) Harry knew enough that swallowing an egg, breaking the shell and draining the egg before regurgitating the vacuumed shell was not a party trick anyone would appreciate, so stuck to toast.

Other than that, it was fortunate that Hermione huffed and puffed even more than Harry did, especially in regard to their classmates spewing false information or mistreating books. It caused Snape to dock more points than was acceptable for ‘huffing’ - as clearly this was some kind of Gryffindor tactic or plot.

It was during his second year that it became apparent that his unusual habits may have been something else entirely than behavioural quirks.

It turned out being a Parselmouth accounted more than just being able to speak to snakes, and although the library was almost stripped clean of even references to Parselmouths, there was just enough to give hints to the nature of the skill.

Being able to talk to snakes, all snakes regardless of origin or species, came with the inherent ability to understand their behaviours and imitate them.

It predisposed Parselmouths to snake like behaviours and although Harry rarely spoke in the language itself, it felt more natural to him that anything else. Snakes did not deal with words and objects like humans did, but the language came when called upon, and both the snake and Harry knew what they were talking about.

It was disconcerting. It was scary.

And most worrying of all? Harry did not know how to stop it. It was as intrinsic as breathing.

Tom Riddle had known Harry was a Parselmouth, he had had the ear and body of Ginny Weasley for most of the year after all.

For all his fury that Harry was the cause of his elder self’s defeat, he was fascinated by the fact Harry was also a Parselmouth. He had grabbed Harry’s face, turning him side to side looking bemusedly enraptured by Harry’s threat display.

“At your age, I was imitating much more vicious snakes than this, Harry.”

That may have been all well and good, but Harry didn’t _feel_ very vicious. He felt very threatened and in over his head.

And despite feeling so scared, and the fact Riddle wasn’t quite real yet – still hazy around the edges and a little transparent even with his solid touch – his scent in the air was similar to Harry.

People had unique flavours to them, and Harry now knew that his way of processing scents and smells was akin to a snake and not a human. But other people didn’t have the right flavour. They tasted human.

The boa constrictor at the zoo had an earthy flavour, tasted safe and older. Familiar.

And now Riddle had the same echo to him, a similar flavour, a tinge not found in other humans.

Harry got the distinct impression that Riddle was more snake-like than most other Parselmouths.

“No, don’t taste the air like that,” Riddle scolded, closing Harry’s jaw. “If I have to tolerate your presence for any more time, you will do it properly.”

Harry had been affronted. “My mouth wasn’t open that much!”

“If you are going to gape, you look even more pathetic than you already are. You only need your mouth open a sliver to taste the air.”

Harry’s cheeks puffed out again.

“Oh, my word,” Riddle chuckled breathlessly, “Would you stop?” He pressed down on Harry’s cheeks until Harry let the air dispel. “You’re so young. Defenceless. How did you defeat the greatest wizard who ever lived?”

Riddle had almost looked regretful to kill him, not that it stopped him trying.

***

Harry’s greatest source of information became Herpetology books, and learning about snakes themselves. Dumbledore shared a few limited theories with him, when Harry sat in his office covered in ink and blood.

It turned out his first amalgamation turned out to be an Eastern Hognose snake. Relatively harmless, known for imitating cobras by puffing out it’s cheeks to deter predators, and if that did not work; they played dead.

A common snake for young Parselmouths to align with before they got their wand and began to learn how to defend themselves.

The hognose was quite embarrassing when there were much more dangerous snakes to imitate.

The difference, according to Dumbledore, was purely psychological. If you felt vicious, you would imitate it. If you felt weaker then, you would imitate a more harmless snake. Of course, this was all hypothetical as Parselmouths were not ones to allow themselves to be studied, and the rarity of them only made it worse.

It was choices that made the difference, but not even the most vicious Parselmouth could take on a snake’s true properties.

( _Harry didn’t tell him that there are certain things he has that are directly correlated to snakes, like how he can eat eggs the way he does, or how he doesn’t need to blink anywhere near as much as Ron or Hermione do.)_

It was relieving Harry wasn’t going to kill anyone with venom, nor petrify them with his gaze. But also, somewhat frustrating as it was all completely useless. None of the skills that came with being a Parselmouth would help Harry survive Voldemort.

Dumbledore seemed proud that Harry imitations were of relatively docile snakes, seemed to imply that made all the difference, but it didn’t. How could it?

Harry couldn’t use any of those traits against Voldemort.

Nor did it explain the sense of kinship that Harry had felt with him. That Riddle had evidently felt too, even if he did not let it impede his course of action.

Most snakes were solitary creatures, but parselmouths were also mammals. Don’t even predators crave understanding and companionship, of a sort?

But Voldemort had _killed_ his parents…

Harry hadn’t felt that any kinship with Voldemort last year, but all that had been in the air was Quirrell’s rot and pain.

He tasted the air around Dumbledore. Only through the slightest parting of his lips, like Riddle said. Human and congenial, but nothing like the much better scent of Riddle’s ghost.

***

Spitting was a bad habit.

One that Harry developed in fourth year, angry and attacked feeling by not only the other schools but his own friends too, he wanted to strike out defensively.

Malfoy got the first bout of it. Professors Moody and McGonagall had intervened.

“Where do you think you are, Potter?! A _zoo?_!” McGonagall had shrieked, her thick Scottish brogue in a higher pitch than Harry had ever heard before. Harry tried to look chastised.

Malfoy stood silently next to him looking for all intents that he had been molested, the thick frothy spit still staining the front of his robes.

Moody looked like he was trying not to rupture something maintaining a dedicated and severe frown. So severe in fact, Harry wondered if he was chewing through the skin. He didn’t taste angry though.

“Sorry, Professor,” Harry muttered, “He was going to curse me whilst my back was turned.” Something he had only known through the intent in the air, the shock and gasps of the surrounding audience.

McGonagall gave him a scouring look, turning to Malfoy, who had arisen from his horrified stupor to look affronted.

“The boy’s right, McGonagall,” Moody intervened before Malfoy could finishing opening his mouth, “I was about to put a stop to it before Potter here--” he waved his hand, seemingly running out of words to say. “I’ve never seen someone spit that distance before.” His eye rolled wildly in his head, “Handy defence that.”

“ _Enough_ , Alastor,” McGonagall strained, a few hairs escaping her tight bun. She adjusted her glasses primly, “20 points from each of you. And detention as well.” She levelled a stern finger at Malfoy, “Mr Malfoy, I have no doubt your father would not like to hear about you casting at other students’ backs – that is unbecoming. Potter,” she turned her head sharply to him, and then stopped, “I have no words for you. You are better than this. I will not have any members of my house brawling, never mind _spitting_ at other students.”

Both of them nodded resignedly. Malfoy huffing and turning sharply on his heel, no doubt going to write a letter to his father.

“Harry,” McGonagall said suddenly, before he could leave and brace himself against the crowds. “I know this situation is unpleasant for you, but don’t stoop to this level. Hold your head high, do yourself and your house proud.”

Harry felt his mouth twist bitterly, ‘unpleasant’ did not do it justice.

“Come with me, Potter,” Moody said, slapping him on the shoulder, “Let’s have a chat.”

***

With a violent twist the heavy thread of magic broke, sending Harry’s wand flying and his parent’s spirits away in a puff of smoke.

It disappeared amongst the graves.

Harry watched it go with a dismay that chilled him.

He was going to die. That had been a guarantee from the moment he arrived, the moment Cedric had hit the floor with his empty eyes.

But for a moment, just a moment, Harry had hoped he could get free, get the portkey…bring Cedric home to his parents…

But now, there was no chance of that happening. The graveyard was full of dazzling brightness, sparks in the air that tasted like electricity.

Harry couldn’t run to the cup with his leg damaged.

He could have thrown himself to Cedric’s body and summoned it, but he could not get the cup without a wand.

The lights were fading, he could feel Voldemort’s anger in his scar, as well as seeing his robed arms swinging through the smoke.

And that old instinct rose in him. The one that had him drop to the ground in sight of the teachers when Dudley and his friends were chasing him. The one that struck at Malfoy hard and fast and unpredictable.

The one that Moody had told him to exploit and utilise. _You’re a Parselmouth, Potter. Act like one. It might save your life._

That snake like coil of cunning that he had tried so hard to repress. To be normal.

Harry let himself collapse as the dizzying colours of the broken magic fizzled out, the blinding lights giving way to the dark of night.

There was a frigid silence in the air as Harry watched the gathered death eaters shift warily, Voldemort glowering down at Harry’s prone form.

And as Harry lay there, he wondered if this was supreme stupidity or the cleverest thing he had ever done, because Voldemort was lowering his wand.

The Death Eaters were exchanging furtive glances, the eyeholes in their masks showing their darting eyes, the whites so easy to pick out in the darkness.

Harry’s scar prickled fiercely, but he tried not to wince.

“ _I know you’re not dead, Harry._ ” Voldemort taunted, with a sneer as he tasted the air. Then the sneer gave way to a high-pitched hissed laugh, a manic baring of teeth. _“I see it now,”_ He finally said softly. _“I_ taste _it now. What shall you try next? Will you defecate to convince me?_ ” He prowled closer, “ _As amusing as it would be, I will ask that you not._ ”

Harry said nothing, kept himself as still as he could. He did not like Voldemort speaking to him in Parseltongue. It was much too nice.

“ _Rumours reached me about your odd…habits. I dismissed them initially_.” Suddenly Voldemort was crouched down beside him, Harry juddered slightly and cursed himself. “ _I dismissed them as petulance when I saw them myself, but I appreciate what they are now_.”

The man’s red eyes scoured Harry’s face with even more fascination than he had before, but with less contempt, his hand hovering in Harry’s periphery.

“Find his wand,” Voldemort demanded, standing. He pointed to two of the Death Eaters and sharply gestured in the direction Harry’s only defence had been flung to. “The rest of you, go. I will deal with you later.”

Sharp cracks filled the air as all of the gathered men disapparated, bar from the lumbering forms of what Harry imagined to be Crabbe and Goyle’s fathers, setting out to find his wand.

Harry was pulled violently back to his original captor of the tombstone, with a sharp crack of his head against the marble as ropes constricted around his middle. He cried out involuntarily, pretence of being dead long gone.

“Let me see you,” The Dark Lord demanded, reaching out with his spidery fingers, “ _I would have thought that at your age, you might be imitating a more aggressive snake_.” The cold fingers touching his cheeks made Harry cry out in pain, his scar burning even more fiercely. “ _But here we are, the great Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, playing a dead Hognose._ ”

Harry hissed, not a word or a defence, just a petulant hiss that transformed into an anguished howl as Voldemort pressed his scar.

Voldemort’s nail trailed the scar again, “ _Does that cause you extreme pain?”_ His serpentine face folding into a faux sympathetic mien. “ _We shall have to explore the nature of this then, shan’t we Harry?”_

All words of defiance or anger, even pleads for mercy, were robbed from him at hearing Voldemort questioning him in Parseltongue. It was soothing, it was an understanding beyond anything he had ever know. It was much worse than what he had felt with Riddle. Harry felt very…connected, despite the fact he was with someone trying to kill him.

Harry wasn’t to learn for many years how much the Gaunt family spoke in Parseltongue. How they chose to _only_ speak Parseltongue, unless forced to engage reluctantly with the authorities.

He would understand it.

“ _Oh, hush now. I may not kill you yet,_ ” Voldemort scolded, “ _You are no threat to me. You know it as well as I._ ” He tilted Harry’s head this way and that to examine the scales over his eyes, he continued to speak in a clinical manner, “ _You would not instinctively act like this if you did not consider yourself harmless against me._ ” He met Harry’s eyes with his piercing red ones, “ _Lord Voldemort appreciates submission and your honesty._ ”

Harry worked his throat to spit out that he did not care what Lord Voldemort appreciated. The Dark Lord’s spidery fingers ran along Harry’s neck, feeling the moving muscles, “ _Do not try to spit at me, you do not have venom. It is merely rude._ ”

Harry took in greedy puffs of air to breathe through the pain and anger at being scolded by Lord Voldemort of all people.

He could taste the darkness on the man, the cruelty, the spite. And yet. Snake. Kin.

“ _Don’t do that._ _You only need your mouth open a sliver to taste the air,”_ The man scolded, so much like his younger self that Harry found his voice again.

 _“I know!”_ Harry snapped, trying to kick out with his legs and wildly twisting.

“ _Then do not do it. You are not a fish, though by all accounts you may be a half-wit.”_ Voldemort’s fingers hooked around Harry’s mouth, pushing at his jaw until it gave way. “ _Unhinged jaws too. My, my, little Potter. We really do have all the traits.”_

He let go of Harry’s face, watching as Harry shook his head and neck in a distinctly snake like manner and hissed venomously at his manhandling.

There were muffled footsteps as the Death Eaters returned, lumbering through the gravestones and foliage.

“ _I have rarely seen other Parselmouths. Especially one so young.”_ The Dark Lord took the proffered wand from the nameless Death Eater, dismissing him with a glare. He held it loosely between his long fingers, “ _With a wand so…similar to my own. And my own mark upon his brow.”_ He smiled, lipless, at Harry’s squirming. “ _Stop your theatrics.”_

Maybe it was because the order came in Parseltongue, but Harry did, his body freezing and trying to coil up.

Voldemort smirked, “ _You and I will have some fun, Harry. We shall find out what stroke of luck made you survive that night.”_ The man pocketed his own wand, continuing to fiddle with Harry’s and watching him unblinkingly, _“If you are a good boy, I may let you live to propagate the Parselmouth traits you have.”_

Harry finally had enough, spitting at Voldemort with desperate fury and fear. He didn’t miss.

Voldemort didn’t look impressed, turning Harry’s own wand on him, “Crucio.”

It was awful, but it was quick. A few moments of searing agony before Voldemort released the spell. Harry panted and heaved against his bindings; and had the crazy thought it was rather a reprimand than serious punishment.

“ _I told you, Harry. That is rude. I will not tolerate that behaviour, even from kin…However we may be related, be it blood or something more interesting.”_

Harry glowered up at Voldemort through his dirty, sweaty hair and perhaps rather fittingly considering his dishevelled, injured and pathetic state, he reverted to his M.O. – he puffed out his cheeks.

Surprisingly, Voldemort smiled. “ _I have never met a snake I cannot tame, Harry. You are young and can be wrangled into a sense of order. You will be my creature._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love some feedback on....whatever this is. I won't say there will be more, but there could be.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who commented, left kudos and bookmarked this fic! I was blown away by the response and couldn't reply to everyone - I genuinely never expected it for this weird little nugget of a story. I said I wasn't going to write anymore...and then wacked out 2.5k three days after initially publishing. Writing the rest of it turned out to be the hardest thing I have ever done. Maybe it's because it's Christmas, but my. god. Do you know how hard it is to combine reptilian and primate/human traits in a semi-realistic way?
> 
> I was aiming to keep it relatively light, but I don't do that, so it got heavy real quick. If you want to keep it relatively happy and light-ish then the first chapter might be the best place to end it. If you want more, then carry on. 
> 
> Also, remember; Harry is 14 years old. No swashbuckling hero moments, no "you can torture me all you like, I'll never tell"...No teenager has the mental fortitude to survive psychological warfare - even with extensive training they do not have the emotional capacity to withstand it. In fact, it is dismally easy to manipulate someone, especially with the creature element here ;)
> 
> So, this time on the adventures of nope rope and danger noodle…

The terrifying thing about being with one of your own kind, was how easy it was to bond with them.

The terrifying thing about Voldemort was how good he was at manipulation, of humans and snakes alike.

And the terrifying thing about Harry? He wasn’t entirely opposed to being kept, not when he had been denied affection and belonging his whole life.

#

Harry was flopped in his bounds, still squirming slightly and awaiting the ominous follow-up to Voldemort’s previous statement.

The Cruciatus Curse had shaken him, a low-grade tremor running through his limbs as the combined pain of his previous injuries and exhaustion from the duel had finally worn through his adrenaline stores.

Harry could hear the gentle swish of the Dark Lord’s robes as he walked up to Harry again, the pain in his scar increasing to dizzying proportions.

Through his blurry eyes, he squinted at Voldemort, tensing as he saw him raise Harry’s own wand, and cast something at him. There was the feeling of liquid ice on his skin and the scar numbed slightly, aching fiercely still, but with a duller edge.

“ _Does that help?_ ” he was asked,

Harry worked his jaw consideringly, his face almost completely numbed by the cold, even as the scar broiled deep under the surface like it was chipping away at his skull. He could see Voldemort’s own jaw tighten in anger at his delayed response.

“ _Yes,_ ” Harry finally slurred, the lack of feeling causing his lips to not move properly.

“ _I will leave it on as long as you behave. Do you understand?_ ”

Harry nodded, tugging futilely at the ropes and suddenly hating the constriction with a primal hatred. They were too tight.

The ropes dissolved, allowing Harry to tumble from the tomb into Voldemort’s grip instead.

Harry thrashed in the hold, his feet skirting the grass as he was partially held up by an unknown spell but secured by Voldemort’s hands, held close to his body.

_Skin. Warmth._

It was something different to be in Voldemort’s arms, his tight, confident grasp made Harry less likely to strike, but it was deeply uncomfortable.

The numbing on his face came away with brutal speed, a whip of searing heat like he had been struck.

Harry attempted to strike at him, all pretence at humanity gone with wordless hissing and spitting. The hands tightened brutally, enough to bruise and the Dark Lord’s nails sunk into the gaping wound on Harry’s arm.

It added to Harry’s struggle, despite knowing he could not break free.

Eventually he settled again, hanging in Voldemort’s secure hold with a huff. He took in great gasping breathes, unable to help himself as his vision swung.

Voldemort didn’t taste angry. Perhaps a little impatient with Harry’s behaviour, but somehow, he also was pleased. “ _Finished with our tantrum now, little Potter?”_ His tone was somewhat caustic. He began to walk towards the large manor house crumbling in the distance. “ _It does not do to strike at the hand that will be feeding you. At your family, no less.”_

Voldemort was _not_ his family.

The numbness began to return to Harry’s face, creeping like fingers across his cheek and seeping into his scar with blessed relief. He found some of the coiled tightness of his muscles unravelling.

The house was in great disrepair, dilapidated and broken as Harry recalled from his dreams. The restrictive grip was loosened once they arrived in what must have once been a study, though the bookshelves were empty, and the few muggle books that remained were broken and tasted damp.

There were a few scattered armchairs in the room, and Harry could taste which one Voldemort had mostly occupied in his little homunculus form, even though he already knew what it looked like.

He would not touch that chair.

The air lingered with small traces of peculiar smells, but material was so much better at holding them. There was something reminiscent of Professor Moody about, but Harry dismissed that quickly. The overwhelming smell was of Voldemort and Pettigrew. Snake and rat. Predator and prey.

Voldemort would have a better den under normal circumstances. But when one was hiding, there was little choice, Harry supposed. 

It doesn’t do to disturb another’s territory and despite Voldemort having been so physically little previously, the impression left in the material of the chair was overpowering. 

There was another chair, that was bereft of scent with half the padding falling out of it.

“ _Sit down.”_

Harry chose the partially collapsed chair without a word. He hobbled over on his throbbing leg, keen for distance and to take the weight off the torn muscle.

There was a part of Harry that wanted to do as Voldemort told him. Harry had never understood the way that Hermione would flush with pleasure under McGonagall’s stern but approving gaze, or how Malfoy would preen under one of Snape’s nods, or even the way that Ron would squirm under Snape’s glower.

But there was a want to please Voldemort, deep down and subtle.

“ _I’m glad to see you’re behaving. I had heard of your insubordination and rule breaking, but at the time I thought I was dealing with an insolent pest of a boy.”_ Insolent had always been a word prescribed to Harry. No matter what he did, he was considered insolent. Voldemort evidently picked up on Harry’s thoughts, as he scoffed, “ _What human authority does a snake respect?”_

He sat down in his previous chair with a look of distaste, fastidiously adjusting his robe over his knees. _“I am an authority figure that makes sense to you. Of course, you will do what you’re told,”_ Voldemort continued _, “I expect you to.”_ His red eyes scorched into Harry, his scar peaking in pain for a moment. _“I will not tolerate any teenage rebellion.”_

Harry tried to take in subtle tastes of the room. Voldemort was serious, a dangerous edge to his authoritarian words. And even though Harry should not behave, should be as rude as Snape always claimed he was, he didn’t _want_ to. He didn’t want to disappoint Voldemort. There were too many unknown variables. “ _I won’t.”_

He was trapped without a wand, with the most powerful dark wizard in the country, potentially even the world. Harry had never been held in a situation like this with Voldemort before, in the previous two meetings, it had been fight or flight. There had been no choice in the matter. Robbed of that impetus, Harry was robbed of the necessary fuel to fight. He wanted to run, to flee…to hide, but how could he? What could he do? Back-chatting Voldemort would not keep him reasonable, and Harry had lived with his muggle relatives long enough to know when it was easier to keep them reasonable than rile them.

Voldemort nodded, “ _Good. We have some ground rules to cover. You will learn what mercy I am giving you, what_ leniency _I am letting you have, and you will appreciate it.”_

Those were dictatorial words that Harry was used to, what he expected.

“ _You are only receiving this as a curtesy, until I decipher how you are what you are. If you behave well, I reiterate, I may let you live. Is that clear, little Hognose?”_

Harry nodded, the cold in his face shuttering his left eye, whilst his leg became hotter still, throbbing with the inflammation.

 _“The long and the short of it is; you will mind your manners and your tone around me. I expect to be addressed as My Lord or Master, though—”_ his mouth twisted wryly, “— _I suppose you may address me according to species. Rather simple, isn’t it? Your comfort depends on your behaviour.”_

Harry nodded again, because what could he say to that? He would love to be able to say that he did not care about comfort, he did not need it – because that was true. He did not need it, but what could he really protest about Voldemort’s terms?

He was not being asked to give up secrets (not that he had any) nor was he being asked to compromise his friends lives…bar from being imprisoned, what was he actually protesting against?

This man had killed his parents.

He had killed Cedric, who was lying out there in the dark, alone and cold.

Cedric whom he had promised to bring home.

But this monster also was…like Harry.

_“I’ve inspected my family tree, and in my pruning of it, I am the last of Slytherin’s line. The last Parselmouth in the West, so begs the question, where have you come from, Harry?”_

Harry tried to bolster himself but felt a sudden shyness under the inspection, scared - for the first time in his life - to be found wanting. But this was a snake’s authority, not a human’s.

 _“Parselmouths are an unusual combination of human and reptile, a most unfortunate marriage. Most of us fall on one side more than the other, my family were particularly reptilian. Others I have met are more like yourself, a bit softer in the bite.”_ Voldemort inspected Harry with a rove of his sharp red eyes, starting with Harry’s nervously jiggering leg, all the way up to his burning scar.

 _“Tell me what you’re feeling in your scar.”_ A quill suddenly floated over, standing upright, looking attentive and Harry soured thinking of Skeeter’s Quick Notes Quill. “ _Don’t worry about the quill, it’s under my control--”_ Voldemort smirked _, “—and I am hardly going to run to the Prophet with salacious details.”_

That was hardly reassuring, but Harry didn’t delay in answering, _“It hurts. It burns.”_

 _“Hsss,”_ The man spat at him, _“Obviously. Just the scar tissue itself? The flesh?”_

Harry had to think, because certainly it was the flesh itself, but somehow also, more. _“That’s…the worst bit, I think. But it hurts…everywhere. Deep.”_

_“Deep? Throughout your entire skull? In the bone itself?”_

_“Yes,”_ Harry confirmed. “ _It’s...”_

“ _All consuming? Hmm._ ” The man drummed his long fingers against the arm of his chair, the serpentine features contemplative. “ _Look at me,_ ” he demanded.

Harry wanted to say he was, but the moment he skirted over the man’s features, and met those red orbs, the pain in his scar seared even worse than before. The pressure burst through his eyes, ruptured the sinuses in his nose. His ears popped.

Memories flashed before him, too fast for Harry to truly process. He may have let out a cry. When the memories stopped, the room swayed in front of him, a distorted echo wailing in the air.

Voldemort was glowering at Harry with a detestable fierceness, but then mellowed after a few moments. He was clearly thinking about something and Harry hesitantly analysed the air for any clues for how it would pan out. He couldn’t run far with his leg, and now his head throbbed with a different pain than that of the scar.

He might vomit.

He wanted to lie down.

Sweat was cooling on the back of his neck, his whole face awash with it. He wiped his nose distractedly, was alarmed to see if come away streaked with blood. Harry could barely taste it above the rest of his own pain in the air.

He swallowed, his head bobbing as the aches made him experience a peculiar sense of vertigo.

“I do wonder,” Voldemort finally murmured, tracing Harry’s scar with his eyes again. The English was jarring, and so terribly awful in Voldemort’s voice.

Riddle’s voice a couple of years ago had been pleasant and smooth in English, the beginning of a deep timber, nothing like this high and cold voice he now possessed.

The snake tongue sounded exactly the same and was much more soothing to the ear. Harry only wanted Voldemort to speak Parseltongue rather than hear that terrible coldness.

The man stood briskly, _“You will stay here, I think. Malfoy Manor will serve me well in the coming months, but the ministry will be keen to search it when neither that other boy nor you return to the school.”_

 _“How long will I be here?”_ Harry asked, tightening his grip on the arm rests. He didn’t want Voldemort to go. He didn’t want him to stay either. Harry didn’t want to be trapped in his house by himself.

He wanted Sirius. He wanted Hogwarts.

 _“Until I have decided what to do with you and until it is safe to move you to a different location.”_ The man started to wave his wand and Harry could hear furniture upstairs screeching and shifting.

Dumbledore would find him, Harry thought, and Voldemort must have caught some scrap of it in his scent or his face because he snapped angrily, “ _Do not presume to take my kindness for weakness, Potter. You will see how generous I am being to you when you see what I will do to Lucius for his abandonment and his misplacement of my property.”_

Harry found himself rearing back in defensive anger, cheeks distended and hissing “ _I want to go home.”_

 _“You will do as you’re told,”_ Voldemort snapped, at Harry’s coiled hissing. The Dark Lord hissed back, and somehow it seemed deeper and louder, like it came from right in his chest. Unlike Harry’s, which sounded high-pitched and tinny in comparison.

They stared at each other for a long time, hissing until Voldemort suddenly moved from his position in a false strike. Harry darted back, hissing and trying to make himself smaller. His hissing trailed off as he came to awareness of how ridiculous the situation was.

He drew himself up, his hissing cutting off as though he had pulled a zip closed.

 _“I will not repeat myself, Harry. You will do as you’re told.”_ There was something so definitive in that statement and Harry hunched his shoulders. There was a gentle touch to the crown of Harry’s head, _“And will be rewarded for your good behaviour. Little Hognose, you do not need to fear me.”_

Every sense Harry possessed, human or snake, told him otherwise. But there was an element of truth there too. For now, if Harry did as he was told, then he had nothing to fear.

What that meant for later, Harry was not sure. But his reluctant expertise on living on one’s feet was useless now he was in a cage.

How he longed for his wand, even if only to be able to shoot sparks at the Dark Lord. Something was better than nothing, but it had long disappeared into his voluminous robes.

“ _Do you understand?”_ Voldemort prodded, his sharp nails pressing into Harry’s skin warningly.

Yes, Uncle Vernon, No, Aunt Petunia.

“ _Yes, sir.”_

_“How did I tell you to address me?”_

_“Yes—”_ Harry hesitated as his tongue felt twice the size, he couldn’t address him as he asked. But he couldn’t address him as a snake. He just couldn’t, “— _My Lord.”_

“ _Good,_ ” The Dark Lord practically purred, “ _Let me see that leg before I leave you.”_

Surprisingly, the man knelt down gently to inspect the wound, his wand poised to cast. He looked at it for a long moment, pulling the material away from the clotting blood, Harry squirmed and tried not to make too much noise.

Eventually, the man cast a spell, and some of the inflammation left the wound, the brewing infection dispersing.

The wound was not too deep, even Harry could see that, but its placement meant movement tugged and pulled at the open, abused flesh. Voldemort placed a tight compression bandage around it. Before similarly doing the same to his forearm.

“I am not a healer, Harry,” Voldemort chided, tasting his despair, “They will keep.” The man smiled, and despite his demeanour, it was rather soft. He laid what must have been some kind of belt or sash from his robe around Harry’s shoulders. “ _You will have free run of most of the house. I will see you soon._ ”

“ _Please!”_ Harry suddenly found the room to speak, unable to insert it the conversation earlier and panicking now Voldemort was about to leave, “ _What are you going to do with Cedric’s body?”_

 _“The boy?”_ Voldemort queried with nonchalance. “ _Feed him to Nagini, I suppose.”_

“ _Please don’t!”_ Harry begged, “ _Please, send his body home.”_

 _“And why would I do that?”_ The Dark Lord looked bemusedly incredulous, as though Harry had requested green eggs and ham instead of returning a body to its loved ones.

_“H-his family--”_

Voldemort let out an ugly scoff, _“Will mourn him with or without it.”_

Then he left.

One moment he was there. The next he was gone.

The only lingering taste that he had ever been there was the chair and the material he had gifted Harry. Only the slightest ‘pop’ and displacement of the air as he left indicated he had occupied space.

Harry trembled now that he had left, pulling at the material and screwing it into a ball and throwing it in the opposite chair.

Shock. This was shock.

The placidness. The lack of fight.

Harry shouldn’t have needed the rush of a battle, life or death hanging over him to fight.

But still he sat in the chair and shook.

He let out almost a sob, but there were no tears. His trembling hands pressed against his numb face. Pulling off his glasses, smeared with blood and dirt as they were, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and tried to breathe.

Tried to ignore that god-awful stench.

Because, as much as it had tasted like kin. It _was_ kin. It was so much more dangerous than that.

Harry was a Hognose.

But that other smell belonging to Voldemort? He had smelt it before. That was a Basilisk.

And Harry was locked in a Basilisk’s abandoned den, waiting for it to return to decide if he was dinner or not.

He took great heaving breaths. He had to remain calm. He had to get away from the smell.

Because it was terrifying, and it was comforting.

And all the more terrifying because it was comforting.

He stood as quickly as he was able and stumbled out of the room. He grit his teeth against the flair of pain in his leg, the rush of warmth suggesting it was bleeding again.

Voldemort had given him free run of a massive house.

But what use was any of that, when he could barely walk?

Of course, free run of the house was a poor turn of words. Because there were very few unlocked rooms, and it was almost completely barren.

Harry hobbled instantly down the corridor and tried the front door, but it was locked. It was not unexpected. The windows were sealed.

A reptilian part of his brain scolded Harry - _Voldemort had left him alone, with a measure of trust. A chance to prove himself. One must wait to strike._

He went upstairs, only one door was open with light illuminating the hallway.

Harry had been given a decent sized room, stripped of most things considered unnecessary, but clean and tidy. The windows were sealed shut, the doors were locked up here too, but Harry supposed if he were to be in a cage then a gilded one was better than a cell.

He had a four-poster bed, much like the one in his dorm, with thick and heavy curtains to enclose it. It made a perfect hide. The bathroom was functional, in an old-fashioned way.

Harry didn’t want to wash, he felt to tense. Too scared. But he needed to. He was caked in filth. In the smell of snake and blood.

Harry was not by nature a scared child - or at least, would carry on regardless of his fear - but he found himself very unsettled by the house.

He was trapped alone and defenceless. He peered down the hallway from his room, the house was silent, so silent that it rung. Everything was large and dark. Harry decided to go back to his allocated room, which was well-lit and warm.

He shut the door.

The whole house smelt disused and dusty, bar from certain areas which tasted like Voldemort and a different snake – which must be Nagini.

Even when Harry burrowed under the covers of his new bed, it didn’t taste right. It wasn’t Hogwarts.

Voldemort was a master at manipulating men; manipulating snakes must be much easier.

A snake likes to be left alone.

Harry’s imprisonment was almost a guide for getting a new snake. Leave them alone in their new habitat for a while so they get used it, do not handle them too much until they’ve settled.

But Harry? He was, as Voldemort said, softer in the bite. He was here alone, and already craved company.

It once again occurred to Harry that he should be fighting more on this. Should have stood up to his parents’ murderer. Maybe he should have been throwing himself at the doors even now, though he knew they wouldn’t open.

Next time. When he was rested and not so injured. Next time. The smell of family would not distract him. Next time.

But just when he resolved to do that? He did not see the man for a long time. For surely, it had been months by this point. His wounds had healed, slowly but cleanly.

The ravens visited the graveyard for weeks. They evidently received Nagini’s meal instead.

Harry regretted asking for Cedric now, felt his eyes burn and his throat become tight. Leaving him in the summer sun to be picked over seemed worse than being one meal for a snake.

Harry had tried to get out of the house, had petulant tantrums, broke things. But after a while, the anger had burnt out. Voldemort was aware of what Harry was doing, sometimes his scar would burn so fiercely that his eyes would water, but the man never came to the house to stop him.

Never sent anyone to punish Harry in his stead.

And after seeing Lucius Malfoy’s punishment for the diary, Harry tried to curb his temper.

In fact, Harry didn’t receive any form of stimulus from Voldemort at all. He was deprived of everything.

And in its absence, he found a peculiar fragility.

In fact, if Harry didn’t receive three meals a day, with a range of healthy foods to keep him full, Harry would think he had been forgotten about. It could have been sent by anyone, but there was always with raw eggs available if he wanted them and only one person knew about that.

New clothes were provided for him, clothes that smelt like kin and den and safety.

Voldemort wanted him dependent. Lonely. Desperate.

And even with Harry’s awareness of that? It didn’t stop it being effective.

#

The massive snake Harry had seen in his dreams watched him sleepily from her place by the fire in his room. How she had gotten in without waking Harry was concerning.

“ _I’m not supposed to eat you,”_ she stated, somewhat bitterly.

Harry found himself struck dumb, before responding in a childish petulance that had rarely struck him before, “ _And I’m not supposed to eat you.”_

She stared at him languidly, “ _We are not equals, little Hognose. Perhaps once master has fed you some more, but you’re not like Nagini.”_ Her coils shifted languidly, “ _You’ll never be like Nagini.”_

Harry didn’t want to be like Nagini.

But he was exceptionally relived to have her there. She was strong and powerful.

She was company.

His face was still perpetually numb, but the scar prickled letting Harry know Voldemort was in the house.

When Voldemort entered the room, there was a large green egg clasped in his long-fingered hands. It instantly drew Harry’s attention.

Voldemort smiled pleasantly enough at him, “ _Good evening, Harry,”_ he greeted congenially, “ _I apologise I wasn’t able to come and see you earlier. There are many complications that come with a thirteen-year absence. I’m sure you can imagine.”_

Harry nodded, all that steely reserve he had tried to build up rapidly being lost under the shifting sands.

Harry hadn’t missed _Voldemort_ , he had missed _company_. And now company was here, and said company wasn’t angry; he was smiling. He had brought food as some kind of peace offering.

Harry felt _relief._

Harry wondered if this is what Dudley felt when he saw Vernon and Petunia when they picked him up from Smeltings.

Harry almost winced when he realised he must have been leaking all those feelings like a faucet; Voldemort chuckled. “ _Ah, little Hognose. It does me good to be amongst kin again.”_ He stood before Harry, gently brushing a few strands of hair away from his scar. “ _We are so rare.”_

The numbing held up admirably, though the warmth that heralded the true pain was still there.

Being so close, Harry could appreciate the egg much more, and his embarrassment at the relief of Voldemort’s return prompted him to blurt out, “ _Why are you keen for me to eat an egg?”_ in a demand. He would have winced, but Harry was surer that Voldemort would let the tone slide when asked in Parseltongue. His temper was much better speaking in the snake language. Nagini was never mishandled like Voldemort’s servants.

 _“Do you not like eggs?”_ Voldemort held out the green egg carefully, pointedly staring until Harry begrudgingly took it. He continued to give Harry a level look before coming to some kind of internal decision. “ _Do you recall what I did to you on the first night you stayed here?”_

There were many things, but Harry thought he was specifically referring to the memories he seemed to have pulled out of Harry’s head – very painfully at that. Harry gave a jerky nod, unconsciously stroking the egg. He took in its scent. It was a good egg.

“ _That was called Legilimency. It is a magic that allows the caster into the mind of another. I wanted to see your past, Harry.”_ He strode over to the window, glancing down into the empty, barren garden with a bored detachment. _“We have history, Harry. We have both defied death, only we do not know how you did it. I have some ideas now, which we will explore later.”_ He turned back, strangely deigning to sit on the window ledge in a move so casual Harry found himself shocked, _“I also wanted to see what traits you have shared with snakes. There are so many to choose from after all.”_

Harry nodded to show he was listening, and Voldemort smiled, leaning in slightly as though he was going to share a secret, _“I have never imitated an egg eating snake.”_

“ _You haven’t?”_ Harry asked, bringing the egg away from his face. Voldemort looked amused.

“ _No, Harry. I have not. I never was presented with the option of only an egg to eat, and no means in which to cook it.”_ He scoffed loudly _, “I would not have tolerated it if it had been offered me. For Lord Voldemort, it was fundamentally unnecessary.”_

Harry parsed over the words for a few moments, before speaking cautiously, _“Pardon?”_

 _“I have travelled far and wide. Been in wildernesses that you could not imagine, little Hognose. I have eaten a whole range of foods, but I always had my wand. I could summon anything I needed, transfigure anything I desired. And by that point, the need to ever imitate that particular snake was long gone.”_ He picked up an apple from the fruit bowl, examining its skin with feigned interest. _“Even as a child, I was possessed of my own uniqueness.”_ He gave Harry a disapproving look, and Harry shrunk under it, _“You seem to revel in your ignorance, denying your abilities even as you turn your teacher’s hair blue or_ Apparate _onto the roof of your school.”_

_“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”_

_“When I was a child, I was not allowed near the kitchens. Especially not the raw food. I was given my portion and kept away from the rest of it.”_ There was something insidious about Voldemort’s smile. Harry would bet he had been a nasty child too, it was right that wherever he had lived, he had not been allowed close to such a valuable resource. Harry didn’t know a thing about Voldemort’s past, and he could see the petty meanness that permeated from him even at this age. “ _You, on the other hand, know how to eat an egg like a snake. That tells me, Harry, that at some point in your young life, the only thing you had available to eat was a raw egg.”_

Harry felt cold.

He hissed wordlessly in response, turning his head to the fire.

 _“It is quite alright, Harry. I am not going to pry.”_ Voldemort shrugged artlessly, interlocking his fingers. He tapped his nails together almost pleasantly, the sound of the nails scraping together forming a buzzing rattle to Harry’s ears.

How could he pry? He had seen everything, hadn’t he? He knew about Harry’s strained relationship with the Dursleys. Harry had a brief moment of worry for his family. He did not wish them dead nor harmed even though they didn’t get along.

“ _You just want me to eat an egg for your entertainment,”_ Harry returned scathingly, clutching his egg closer, protectively.

“ _Has Lord Voldemort been cruel to you?”_ The Dark Lord asked, _“Has he not provided a good egg for your consumption?”_

No, and that was the problem. Harry did not know what to do with all this kindness. This…restraint. _“You could eat one yourself,”_ Harry offered.

 _“I could, but why would I?”_ Voldemort shrugged, placing the apple down delicately. He stood from his slouched position and came closer to where Harry had huddled in his chair. _“I have no appetite for raw egg. You have a taste for it now.”_

 _“I don’t,”_ Harry denied, petulant.

 _“Come now, Harry, I have seen you tasting it from the moment it was in your hands.”_ He laughed, “ _When it was in my hands even. Assessing it to see if you could safely imbibe it. You let all the others go bad, even though you wanted to eat them.”_

Harry’s cheeks inflated.

“ _Come now, Harry. None of that.”_ The Dark Lord’s giant hands smoothed down Harry’s hair, pressing gently on his cheeks. “ _We are kin, aren’t we? Kin look after one another. Eat.”_

Harry glowered at him cautiously, hands smoothing over his prized food. He darted a glance at it, before returning to meet Voldemort’s gaze.

It was a very good egg.

It was an emu egg. Beautiful and dark green with its speckles. It was fresh.

It was large though, but when Harry was very small, he had eaten a chicken egg and managed. It was instinctive to know his neck could stretch, that he would be able to breathe during the process. The shell would be tough, but he could pierce it.

He tasted the shell again.

He wanted to eat it.

The warning prickle of his scar even through the preventative spells also helped him make his mind up.

“ _It will take me a while,”_ He finally murmured in concession. An egg of this size would take him at least forty minutes.

The pain in the scar died down again to a bearable level.

Voldemort stroked Harry’s hair back from his face, eyeing the scar with a great deal of fondness, “ _Take your time, Lord Voldemort will spare it for you.”_

#

After Voldemort’s first proper visit, things became worse in Harry’s prison. The loneliness bit at him even more.

He wasn’t given any form of entertainment, and so he slept quite a lot. Nagini would oftentimes be left with him, taking up the majority of the bed even when Harry would curl up in her coils.

No one ever approached the house, and even when it looked like there may be people in robes nearby, their eyes seemed to skip right over the manor as though it wasn’t there.

They instead focused on the little shack down the hill, but even then, they merely poked at it for ten minutes before leaving.

Harry knew it must be around school time now, as the beautiful summer heat had reached its peak, began to cool slightly and Nagini complained that the scared boy in master’s den was getting ready to leave again. _Who was she to chase when he did? The rat-man was too fat and slow to be fun if she couldn’t eat him._

Voldemort would come and eat with him some nights, or merely visited and spent some time with them both.

He had done something with Harry’s scar recently, and the lack of pain was so relieving that it made this bizarre solitary confinement almost tolerable.

Harry’s only company was the man who murdered his parents. He should revile this.

But most snakes leave their young very quickly, left them to fend for themselves. And Harry had been at the Dursley’s.

It might have been easier to clasp onto that hatred and fear if the pain had remained, if the man had tortured him continuously.

But he didn’t. He had gone out of his way to make Harry comfortable, as pain free as he could (though let him remain hobbled for weeks to counteract any strenuous escape attempts). He had fed Harry well, had an understanding of Harry’s needs as both a snake and a child.

He didn’t punish unduly, and Harry knew that was unusual from his horrid dreams of blood and torture and Nagini eating and eating…

He educated Harry, through words and through scent.

And Harry began to _miss_ him when he was away.

It was following this realisation that Harry’s skin began to itch and feel tight, like he had terrible sunburn. He scratched and scratched until his arms bled and it still wouldn’t stop.

Nagini scolded him for it, holding his hands tightly as she constricted around his form to stop him ‘harming his scales’. He did not like feeling like prey.

He hid the wounds, until Voldemort scented the blood on him. He had snapped at Harry, reeling him in close despite Harry’s squirming and hissing.

Harry was disgusted that he had settled quicker than before, that something reptilian now knew Voldemort was not going to harm him, that Voldemort kept him warm and fed and safe, it became much easier to trust him.

“ _You seem to be having an allergic reaction to something,”_ Voldemort mused, pulling up Harry’s sleeve and eyeing the scratches. _“How odd.”_

 _“I’m not…shedding or something?”_ Harry asked, embarrassed and concerned.

Voldemort laughed, surprisingly merry, “ _I doubt it. You are a human being; you have no need to shed your skin to grow. Perhaps if you get particularly rotund in your middling years you may have need too, but I would doubt it.”_ He gave Harry an appraising look, _“I believe you’re scratching at your skin for psychological reasons.”_

“ _Psychological reasons?”_

 _“You would be surprised, snakelet, how much one’s psychological state can affect our physical state,”_ Voldemort informed. His gaze was almost concerned, _“Is Nagini not enough company for you?”_ Said snake’s massive head peered out from the closed bed curtains; she gave Harry a piercing, accusing look. “ _Then again, she is hardly a brooder._ _Parselmouths are both man and snake.”_ Voldemort looked like he found his next words distasteful, “ _Muggles, for all their faults, are more established in their understanding of evolution. We have both traits from snakes and from our primate cousins.”_

The bulk of Nagini’s massive body landed on the floor as she left the hide, seemingly deeply affronted. She ignored them both pointedly, parading deeper into the house through the open door.

 _“Parselmouths are not the warmest of creatures. But most do seem to crave some form of bonding or intimacy. Sociality comes in many forms, including grooming for humans. Tell me, Harry. Do you think you could get all this shed off by yourself if you_ were _moulting?”_ Voldemort seemed perversely delighted. “ _You are looking for enrichment and interaction with your own kind.”_

 _“No, I’m not!”_ That could not be true. It wasn’t. It wasn’t.

 _“It is alright.”_ Voldemort soothed _, “Why, Harry, are you upset that I am not staying in the same den as you? I am not a viper.”_

No, he was not. Though Harry thought the man might share a few traits with them, he was much more dangerous.

He certainly seemed to petrify his victims with his piercing gaze. Despite that, the more Harry was around him, he had begun to assimilate the taste of the man and his snake with being safe.

Even though, Harry knew Voldemort also had no trouble imitating King snakes either from his previous history with other Parselmouths.

 _“I could braid your hair, if you would like?”_ The man continued, viciously cruel in his baiting even as he ran his hands over Harry’s irritated skin, with brisk motions to pull off some of the flakes that Harry had scratched at. His scent wasn’t half as cruel as his words.

Harry wanted to pull away, but the warmth generated from the touch was nice, the itchiness of his skin soothed at the touch.

His protests died, and instead he let out a sigh.

Voldemort smiled slightly. He pulled Harry to sit down next to him. “ _You ought to be grateful, Harry. Lord Voldemort never had company nor anyone to do this for him.”_

His hands cupped Harry’s face, massaging his cheeks and sweeping under his eyes.

Harry found his own lidded slightly, doubting Voldemort ever truly craved sociality. _“You’re not a garter snake,”_ Harry said unintentionally, but fortunately Voldemort made an amused sound.

“ _No, I am not. How on earth did I end up with one in you?”_ It sounded fond, almost.

Every stroke of Voldemort’s hands left trails of his own scent on Harry’s skin. Undetectable to a human nose, but to a snake’s tongue? Undeniable.

Something settled in Harrys chest. A tight ball of lead unwinding and relaxing. He lent into Voldemort’s secure hold.

For all the snake-like features, Voldemort was very warm. He radiated heat, much like any human would, Harry supposed.

Harry had never been particularly cold. Like all humans, he was warm-blooded, but he did _love_ warmth and would actively seek it out. He liked being near an open fire, the summer sun on his skin, even the pipes that ran along the skirting board of his cupboard had been amazing to get close to.

He loved being hugged by Mrs Weasley and Hermione, clasping his teammates after winning a Quidditch match. They radiated heat that he did not need but wanted anyway.

And so, he lent into Voldemort’s hands. Let him bear Harry’s weight.

He could sense the other’s surprise, slight irritation even that Harry was being so cheeky. But then Harry let his eyes close.

He could have kept them open, even if he did not maintain eye contact. But he shut them.

Closing one’s eyes to a predator was stupid.

Voldemort’s thumbs rested gently against his eyelids. He could gouge out Harry’s eyes if he so chose to. Instead there was an indelicate huff of breath, the gentlest disturbance of the air as Voldemort leant in a little to taste the air. Unnecessary.

“ _Silly child,”_ Voldemort scolded, “ _You have long shed your egg-tooth. You should not trust so easily.”_ He sounded warm. Of course, he did. He had Harry where he wanted him to be. “ _Perhaps we can be like vipers. You shall come to my den for the winter months.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> This chapter was an extra on top of the previous one-shot, I might write more if the ideas come to me, but for now I would consider this complete.
> 
> Happy Holidays and all the best for the New Year - keep save everyone :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 1000 kudos for two chapters???? Oh my god - thank you all for joining me all on this weird, weird journey. As a thank you, have this incredibly dark and depressing chapter!!!
> 
> Seriously, everyone - thank you so much :)
> 
> I have given this chapter a couple of checks myself, but I am sure I have missed some errors here and there. Just to reiterate, this one is really quite dark and depressing...and if you've ever read any of my other stuff, that probably will not be a surprise to you. So, yeah. Just so you all know going in what to expect.

The thing about snakes is you’re never going to win their affections. They aren’t like mammals. Give them food. Give them shelter and they shall like you as much as they are inclined to like anything.

Children on the other hand, are a little trickier. They need a little more tenderness, affection.

Parselmouths, being a combination of the two, were a prime example of the old theory that children bonded with those that fed them, that satiated their needs. Selectively handled and appropriately treated, they would be yours.

Voldemort had utilised that with a killer instinct.

The next major problem with Voldemort was that he was ‘reasonable’. Despite how he acted to his Death Eaters and other humans, he was a ‘reasonable’ person to Harry.

He freely acknowledged he was not being fair to Harry, that he had no intention of stopping. That he would kill people, people Harry knew, people who were completely innocent, and that he would not stop doing so just because it was ‘unfair’ or ‘cruel’.

But he rationalised that it was war. That was the cost of war.

In his view, Harry should hope he won, and won quickly for then there would be less lives lost.

How could Harry fight against a man who was so reasonable about being unreasonable?

He discriminated against those with less than pure-blood, despite not being one himself. But it was his wizarding blood that made him special, and in his case, the very specialness of that wizarding blood made him exempt from his own discrimination.

It didn’t make sense to Harry, but Voldemort had an uncanny knack of making Harry feel like it was his fault for not being smart enough to understand.

Harry felt there was so much wrong with the Dark Lord’s philosophy but could never articulate it in a way that would stand up to Voldemort’s robustness. Not that the man often let the conversation be steered towards politics.

He would sigh, his scent taking on a deeply irritated and dangerously predatorial air. His fingers would rapidly twitch, as though he were restraining himself from taking his wand and cursing Harry.

Even though Harry hated what Voldemort did, he also became keen to avoid the topic as it was only going to resolve in straining Voldemort’s patience.

Harry had avoided strenuous periods under the Cruciatus Curse, but with the increased time spent with the Dark Lord, that would only become more likely.

There was a part of Harry that didn’t want to rock the boat. Whatever about him being a Parselmouth had kept him alive thus far, was still doing so, and as much as Harry disagreed with what Voldemort was doing - with what he stood for - he was also painfully aware that Voldemort was not going to let him engage with it.

Somehow, his supposed enemy was now acting as he de-facto guardian and he was not allowed to fight in a war.

And that was frustrating.

But it was also (oh so shamefully) _relieving_.

“ _My little serpent, you will never see the battlefield if I have anything to do with it. You are…fifteen now? You will not be of age for another couple of years in the wizarding world, never mind the restrictions Parselmouths tend to keep on their offspring. Either way, I will have won this war before you will have reached adulthood. And if I have not yet won, you will_ still _not be allowed to join.”_

Parselmouths were independent from a young age, but as Voldemort archly informed Harry, most liked to stay in family groups. Even if they hated one another, the weaker snakes tended to cling to their own kind.

In most cases, breed with one another too, causing their lines to weaken.

Of course, Harry would be allowed to leave the den when Voldemort judged him to be grown and capable. If he ever did.

Maybe a little part of Harry actually liked having Voldemort looking after him. He wanted to push him away, but at the same time, press close.

He knew Voldemort would never reject his affection seeking, the imprint of protection from his basilisk scent.

So, when the Dark Lord would get that deeply irritated scent, Harry would hunch his shoulders, ducking his head and shuffle closer despite wanting to run away. He would sometimes end up pressed against the elder man’s side, physically touching him.

It was terrifying, but the man would stop looking like he was going for his wand. Would place his hand on Harry’s head, or his face.

Voldemort’s scent would calm. Sometimes to mild amusement, sometimes to something akin to affection or warmth.

And it would help Harry. That constricting fear would unwind, his heartrate would cease its galloping.

It resulted in a terrible, conflicted guilt.

Harry should not be falling into this trap. But he was.

Voldemort smelt like family. Nagini smelt like family.

Not even Sirius smelt like that.

When it was time to leave the house he had been kept in, it was an autumn day. The leaves were turning orange and red, just beginning to fall, floating in the wind before littering the graveyard.

Although Harry was not displeased to be leaving his uniquely awful prison, he was quite scared to be moving to Voldemort’s place of residence.

He knew the man had originally been staying at Malfoy Manor, vengefully looming over those who had failed him so soundly. Nagini’s mutterings seemed to corroborate that he hadn’t left it yet.

Harry wouldn’t be expected to socialise with anyone, of that he was sure, but he still found himself nervous. He wanted to hide behind his bed curtains, oddly reluctant to leave what he knew. What had become home.

“ _Come,”_ Voldemort held out his hand. “ _There is no need to be cautious, little one. You’ll be with me. No one enters my den bar from our kind.”_

They apparated straight into what Harry assumed was Voldemort’s quarters. Side-along apparition turned out to be singularly unpleasant.

The rooms were ridiculously ornate, especially compared to what Harry had left behind. The grandeur of the estate would have clued Harry in that it was Malfoy’s home before anything else.

He looked around, hunching in a little on himself. It smelt strange. Like Voldemort, which was comforting, but the space was so much larger. The ceilings arched even higher than the ones in the old house.

“ _This will be your room,”_ Voldemort said. “ _I expect your continuing good behaviour, or I will send you back to your old den without even Nagini for company.”_ He gently tugged on Harry’s arm, encouraging his movement, _“I will show you the expanse of the safe areas you can move freely between. You are not to leave my quarters, do you understand? There are many in this house that would do you harm.”_ Harry shuddered, and could only imagine the type of people Voldemort would entertain. Nagini had even made mention of plans for Voldemort to release his followers imprisoned in Azkaban. _“I have no use for kin who are stupid and allow themselves to get hurt for no justifiable reason.”_

Harry nodded to show he understood, shuffled his bare feet against the carpet.

Of course, he was not allowed shoes. Not only would it hinder escape attempts, but also the sweat from feet left a blazing trail of scent for a Parselmouth and a snake to follow.

He was shown the many rooms that Voldemort had cordoned off for his own personal use. The Dark Lord had taken quite a sizable amount, more for Lucius’ failure than any great need of them Harry suspected, as he could taste Voldemort’s preference for only a couple of rooms.

They ended up in a small library, one of many available, Harry began to think. This may have been the Dark Lord’s personal collection. The books here certainly bore down on Harry, the air felt dense with it.

 _“You’re not to touch any of these books, Harry. Some of these are very nasty for even the experienced reader,”_ Voldemort stated, pointing to a pre-prepared desk. _“You have missed only a few months of school. I am going to give you some work to make up for the lost time.”_

Harry would normally not want to do schoolwork, but he was grateful to have anything to do after spending months sleeping. He imagined he would need the stimulus here too, as there was nothing else he was going to be allowed to do.

Voldemort ushered him into the chair, smoothing his hands over Harry’s bony shoulders. He summoned a large stack of books, setting them on the edge of the table. He plucked the first three of the pile and set them in front of Harry, one at a time.

“ _Occlumency_ ,” Voldemort’s hand splayed across the first book, “ _the art of protecting one’s mind. You will need to learn this._ ” A couple more books were placed in front of him, “ _It would be your OWL year at school. I do not want you to fall behind. If you are to return to school at some point, you’ll want to remain with your year-mates, I imagine._ ”

“ _Will I?!”_ Harry gasped at the opening offered to him, “ _Be going back to school that is?”_

Voldemort gave him an assessing look, raising a hairless eyebrow. Harry ducked his head under the soundless admonishment. “ _Perhaps, little snake.”_

Harry cautiously smiled at the desk, trying not to squirm, “ _But, I’m not taking Ancient Runes or Arithmancy,”_ he said instead, fiddling with the cuff of one of his robe sleeves.

Voldemort’s hand gently took a hold of his fiddling fingers, pulling them away from his sleeve, “ _No, don’t do that. You’ll pull the material._ ” His long fingers straightened out Harry’s cuffs almost absentmindedly, “ _These are beginner’s books, for those starting the courses in third year. Your previous electives will not do, Harry. You’ll find little use for Divination in this world unless you have a genuine gift for it, or enough faith to believe what you see. And you’re hardly going to become some kind of animal keeper with our heritage_.” His now free hands came up and pulled Harry’s gaze up to his burning red eyes, “ _I want you to study these instead. I know you’ll do well.”_

Harry had never had an adult want him to do well or have faith in him that he would succeed. He didn’t know if it was lies, and he deeply suspected it was, but it was galling and flattering to hear.

He could see how legions of followers had fallen under the Dark Lord’s charms. To have such confidence and faith in someone would make them more inclined to listen…to obey.

And so, he set to work.

_(--Perhaps the only other person to look at Harry in a similar way was Vernon’s own mother._

_Grandma Dursley was an odd woman. The only one in the Dursley family who had seen Harry as a boy and not a pest._

_She had given him a hard look the first and only time she had ever seen him. She didn’t really look like Uncle Vernon or Aunt Marge, though she was quite plain. She was thinner – though by no means thin - and shrewd._

_Apparently, she had wanted to be a doctor, but then marriage and Marge had come along six and half months later (premature, they had said) and had shot that dream to dust._

_A mother and housewife instead of a doctor. How she had despaired of the travesty of her life._

_She drowned the runts of her bulldog litters with an almost personal feverous intent._

_Grandma Dursley also looked upon Petunia with a peculiar amount of disdain. She looked on them all with disdain._

_“Oh yes, Vernon. Chores are a good way to sort out a boy like that,” she had conceded, words sharp and cutting as she looked Harry up and down and then Dudley. “It is rather peculiar – he does not look the type to be stealing. Rather shy. Especially compared to Dudley.”_

_Vernon had made an ugly scoff. Petunia looked like she was sucking on a lemon, “They never do. They fit in quite well, his parents were the same. Complete con-artists and confidence tricksters. You would think they were normal to look at them.”_

_Grandma Dursley’s cold eyes raked over the children again. Dudley was making no attempt to hide his boredom, shuffling from left to right foot, sighing loudly – he had not been paid by anyone to suffer this attention like he did for Aunt Marge._

_Harry, used to this kind of piercing assessment, waited patiently to be dismissed._

_“Boys, go and do your chores,” Grandma Dursley finally dismissed them._

_Harry returned to the kitchen to begin preparations for dinner that night, Dudley ran upstairs to do his ‘chores’._

_Harry got a full portion of dinner that night, not as large as Dudley’s or Vernon’s, but of a similar size to Petunia’s. “The boy helped make it, he deserves a portion. You do not beat a dog constantly and expect it to learn a lesson,” Grandma Dursley lectured, smacking Dudley’s hand away from the extra roast potatoes and ensuring Harry had a couple, “Punishment and reward. If he does as he should, he should be treated well. I can see nothing wrong with this meal.” Vernon was turning a shade of puce that heralded true anger. Grandma Dursley skewered him with a look, “I saw him with Petunia, he did nothing that could be considered insidious – do not try that with me, Vernon.”_

_Harry looked down at his relative mountain of food in shock, staring up in awe at this fierce woman. She was glowering at Vernon with a look that Harry has so often directed at him, from his Uncle._

_Did Grandma Dursley hate her own son?_

_“I do not judge the house you keep, Vernon. But do remember, I am not Marge, nor your father, from whom you both inherited your brains. No seven-year-old should be that thin.” Her shoulders roiled under her suit jacket, “Especially when your own son has portions of that size.”_

_“Oh no, the boy takes after his father. A thin and mean looking drunk,” Petunia sniffed, trying to defuse the tension gathering around the table._

_Grandma Dursley gave Petunia a cruel kind of smile, eyeing her up with a long stare, “Oh no, Petunia, if he has inherited a thin and mean look from anyone, it must be_ your _side of the family.”_

_Petunia blanched, and Vernon seemed to swell in size. “Now, Mother!” He cried out, “That is no way to talk to Petunia – my wife! She is a respectable woman. Her family were, even if her sister fell in with a rough one.”_

_Harry feared to pick up his cutlery, but under Grandma Dursley’s fierce blue eyes he did so, with a hesitant smile._

_“I am sure she is,” Grandma Dursley commented drily, “Do not get so worked up, Vernon. You have your father’s weak heart. Mind you, he could never remove himself from the fridge either. You’ll kill yourself and my grandson if you continue eating like he did.” She cut into her meat with surprisingly delicate motions for her strong hands. “I suppose you’re still in that dead-end, talentless job that enables you to sit down all day.”_

_“Vernon is not in a dead-end job!” Petunia snapped, “He’s the director at Grunnings. He’s doing exceptionally well.”_

_“Yes, selling_ drills _.” Even Dudley could tell exactly what Grandma Dursley thought of that job. Harry idly wondered what it must have been like to want to be a doctor. Maybe to her, nothing else would be enough._

_Vernon blustered, “It’s a perfectly respectable job.”_

_“And Marge, well on her way to being a bloody drunk,” Grandma Dursley wasn’t finished it seemed, and Vernon seemed to hunker under it, bowing to absorb the emotional blows that he never had a problem dealing to Harry. “Boy? Are you having trouble cutting your food?”_

_Harry startled, looking up with big eyes at Grandma Dursley in worry. He puffed out his cheeks defensively, because yes. He was._

_Grandma Dursley set her cutlery down with a clutter, and briskly took Harry’s away from him to begin cutting up the meat, “Typical that you would choose such a fatty cut of meat to serve, Petunia. You have flushed money away on this. I bet you went to the supermarket, and not the butchers.” She shook her head despairingly, grey hair catching the light, “Tight and mean, indeed.”_

_It was unfortunate that Grandma Dursley died shortly after that visit, quite sudden and unexpectedly and all so very peacefully as her heart gave out in her sleep._

_Harry would have liked her to visit again._ )

Every time Harry felt that urge to rebel against Voldemort’s rules, he ruthlessly quashed it. He tried not to look at the books, even as he felt their dark magic trying to pull him in, to open them.

He stuck to the rooms he was allowed to be in, and often studied in them too, if only to avoid the oppressive air of the Dark Lord’s book collection.

His existence did not truly change that much from when he had been interred at the other house.

Nagini often popped in and out, but had a secret task she had to complete for Voldemort. One he had forbidden her to speak with Harry about.

She got snippy if Harry pushed, so he didn’t.

He tried his best to not ask undue questions of Voldemort either, except for on his schoolwork. Voldemort was very pleased with Harry’s progress, pushing him harder than any of his other teachers ever had.

Harry found himself wanting to do better as well, now that he had some encouragement, someone to ask questions of and (rather embarrassingly) someone to impress. 

It was nearing Halloween when Harry noticed the large doors that somewhat unofficially heralded the beginning of Voldemort’s wing were left wide open. The winter sun was glaring through the windows, highlighting one of the manor’s many corridors.

There was no physical barrier there and the corridor was completely empty. Harry stopped and stared, book dropping to the floor with a muffled thump.

Could he leave?

Could he just walk out right now?

Voldemort would have surely put up wards, some kind of safeguard.

But he had also stated he wanted Harry to behave and that meant keeping within the rooms.

It was a test.

Such a blatant test that it should not have set Harry’s nerves aflutter as it did, make him feel so nauseous.

He dithered in the doorway; the ornate doors wide open to the long corridor. To freedom. 

Harry shuffled closer, sliding to the side to touch the frame. To clutch at it like it might support him and give him strength. He cautiously held his hand out. There was no resistance as his hand breached the open air.

No tingle of magic or anything tactile.

He pulled his hand back, worrying his lip. He could walk past them. He could run. He could try his hand.

He hadn’t a clue how to navigate Malfoy Manor. It was stupid.

Part of him didn’t want to go either, despite knowing he should go. He should at least try.

But…Voldemort was expecting him to do his homework. And wasn’t that the stupidest excuse Harry had ever heard?

But the reality was that Harry understood the only way he was ever leaving this place was with Voldemort’s trust. The only measure of freedom he would ever be allowed would be when Voldemort could at least know he wouldn’t run.

He didn’t have that right now. This was such an obvious test. But an effective one.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to move. Forwards or backwards.

He rolled his head against the wood.

What would be the consequences if he did try his hand and lost?

He could go back to the spooky old house if that was the extent of his punishment…couldn’t he? But what if it wasn’t?

Harry wasn’t stupid; he had heard the screams, the torture. Sometimes the whole manor felt saturated with the anguish.

He had seen Voldemort’s malice through his own eyes.

Harry had been treated well. Better than even some of Voldemort’s most loyal servants.

He was treated like a pet. Like Nagini.

That was galling.

But perhaps he looked at it wrong. He was treated like a snake.

The consequences of falling into such an obvious lure…to spit in the face of what he had been offered…

The first step back was the hardest. It broke something inside him to do it. But he didn’t know the way out. Didn’t even know where Malfoy Manor was in the country, or how far he would need to go to get help.

Could he use the Floo? Or would he have to run to the nearest town? Would he get more people killed?

Would he be punished? Tortured or killed?

Would he be sent back to the other den? Kept alone and friendless. His senses had been conditioned so much that feared Voldemort’s displeasure more than he feared the more physical consequences of being caught.

He picked up his book with shaky hands, glad the spine wasn’t bruised, nor the cover damaged in any shape.

Harry worried he had left sweaty finger-marks on the doorframe, but didn’t dare go any closer to investigate if he had.

He had left his scent everywhere. Sweat was a fantastic fingerprint even if there was nothing visible on the startlingly white doors.

A few hours later, Nagini returned, slithering over the expensive rug to him, “ _You taste like prey,”_ she remarked to him.

“ _No, I don’t,”_ Harry countered in a weak voice, clutching his book like a shield. He imagined he did. Frightened, scared, nervous. He must reek.

He could hear the swish of Voldemort’s expensive robes as he approached, and Harry had to stop his leg jiggering in his nerves. Had to stop the whimper in his throat.

Voldemort entered Harry’s room and stared at him buried in his bedsheets, imperious and cool. But not angry.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

Harry stared up at him pleadingly, robbed of words, but the man said nothing. His scent was as cold as his stare and Harry tried to sink into the relative safety of his own bed. He puffed out his cheeks, before letting the air dispel – that wouldn’t help nor endear him to Voldemort now. “ _I’m sorry,”_ he whispered instead.

The man’s cruel eyes bore down on him for a long moment, before he gestured briskly with his head for Harry to approach him.

Harry did so cautiously, detangling himself from the safety of his bed reluctantly. He was not expecting to be enfolded in Voldemort’s arms. “ _Silly child. I’m proud of you.”_ Proud? Harry felt confused. He had done nothing to be proud of. “ _You have done the right thing, I would have been so worried if you had gotten yourself into trouble. As would Nagini, she would have been so upset not being able to see you anymore.”_ Voldemort’s fingers carded through his hair, snagging in the wild mess, “ _You’ll not consider it again now, will you?”_

No, Harry shook his head, pressing against the robes.

There was a gentle tug on his hair, “ _Say it then, little one.”_

Voldemort did not need to use cruel words or actions anymore, Harry realised. He expected Harry to read him through scent, and act accordingly.

The man tasted like venom. Like the burn as it corded through Harry’s arm when the diary had set Slytherin’s beast on him.

“ _I won’t try it again. I promise.”_

“ _Good boy,”_ Voldemort soothed, “ _I am pleased you did not leave. You did the right thing; it was cruel of me to tempt you.”_

It was cruel, and Voldemort’s enjoyment of it was plain as day to Harry’s tongue. He clutched at the other’s robes with shaking hands.

#

One thing that became apparent to Harry was that Voldemort did not sleep. Or at least did not sleep as much as other people.

Harry didn’t know why that was. Whether he just needed less sleep naturally, had performed enough dark magic that it was no longer necessary for him to function, or kept himself dosed up on a variety of potions to be sharp and intelligent all hours of the day. Either way, Harry never saw Voldemort needing rest, him still being awake when Harry went to sleep and rising before Harry too.

Harry was almost certain that it was nothing to do with being a Parselmouth. Mainly because Harry could sleep all day if left to it.

He had never had the luxury of doing that before his imprisonment, but now he slept in abundance. Nagini and he favoured naps wherever they could find the time to have them.

But as the winter drew in and the days became shorter and the nights colder, Harry noticed a change in Voldemort’s behaviour.

He woke one night to find Voldemort perched on the bed with Nagini and Harry.

Not asleep. Nor under the covers, or entangled as Harry and the giant snake were, but pressed against their bulk, fully dressed and reading.

It was all the more disturbing that the man settling on the bed hadn’t woken Harry up. But the scents of the hide were all mixed in together nicely, and the clothes provided to Harry had always smelt like Voldemort and Nagini.

Voldemort had looked down at him, his red eyes vibrant even with Harry’s lack of glasses. Harry blinked sleepily before drifting off again.

To the Parselmouth, it felt only natural that the eldest of the den be there. It was, after all, winter.

To the human, long accustomed to the low-grade fear, it barely registered.

That lead to the natural conclusion; brumation.

Harry wondered if the behaviour was because they were together, as Harry had never felt so inclined to sleep so much in winter as he was now. Voldemort’s scent had not really accumulated in any of the rooms shown to Harry. Not that he even knew where Voldemort’s bedroom was, even if he had one.

But at some point, he had decided to stay in Harry’s room.

Sometimes he would read aloud to Harry, his voice a soothing croon that settled that something uniquely human and reptilian inside.

Sometimes he would let Harry coil towards him, or Nagini to wrap around him.

Perhaps, for all his barbed mocking, Voldemort never had another of his kind to do this with. Maybe he wanted it.

Then again, he had killed off many of the other Parselmouths. Voldemort was the only one left in this part of the world according to his own records.

Bar from Harry.

So why would he suffer Harry and not the others?

Then came the night when Mr Weasley was attacked. By Nagini.

Harry sat up, bolting into an upright position like he had been struck by lightning. His scar prickled uneasily.

Voldemort was watching him impassively, his sheets of parchment set aside. Evidently, Harry had been disruptive in his sleep for some time. He could taste the rancid smell of his own distress.

“ _Mr Weasley has been attacked!_ ” he cried out, forgetting who he was talking to. He stifled a pained sound, “ _Nagini did it.”_ He felt betrayed, though he couldn’t justify why. She was on Voldemort’s side, not Harry’s.

A heavy hand landed on the back of his neck, squeezing it gently. “ _If he gets help quickly, he may survive.”_

Harry tried to move, to throw the hand off, because Mr Weasley _may_ survive was not good enough.

But the hand held tight.

Became a brutal, securing grip.

Harry’s struggles increased, his feet getting caught up in the bedsheets.

“ _No, snakelet. No tantrums.”_

“ _But Mr Weasley is going to die!_ ” Harry whined, desperately upset.

“ _You’re panicking.”_ Voldemort remarked clinically. And indeed, Harry was. He needed to get free. He needed to get someone to help. He made a small sound, something like a whimper.

At that, he was lifted and settled quickly against the Dark Lord’s torso, pulling half the bedspread with him. The sound of crumbling and bending parchment was muffled by the heavy blankets as Voldemort folded Harry’s body to his liking. His face was pressed against the man’s neck, blocking out the blurry sight of the room, of Voldemort’s hated eyes, muffling the sounds bar from the calm and steady pulse of the Dark Lord.

He wasn’t even mildly affected by Harry’s distress.

“ _Breathe with me now,”_ He said, maddingly calm as he slightly rocked Harry, swaying like a cobra. _“You can’t take responsibility for others like this. That man knew what he was taking on by joining the Order. What happened to him is out of your hands.”_

 _“But—”_ Harry began.

 _“No. We are not having this conversation. It is not your responsibility. You belong to me, and your actions are limited to my control.”_ Harry felt himself slipping, the motions of the basilisk soothing, _“You reported this incident. I will do nothing about the situation, but you have done the appropriate thing. You are fifteen.”_

That was right. He _was_ fifteen – he should _not_ be acting like this. This is what babies did. But how long had Voldemort been stripping Harry of his faculties now? How long before he decided that Harry had been broken down enough to be built back up?

Harry had his head curled into Voldemort’s neck, right in the junction where it met his shoulder. His breathing was slowing, the swaying almost setting him into a hypnotised state.

This was weird, Harry could look at it objectively. It was weird. He was effectively sitting in the Dark Lords’ lap receiving comfort whilst Arthur Weasley lay on a cold ministry floor _dying_.

The man’s hand was stroking down Harry’s back in a slow repetitive motion. Down, then remove the hand, back to the top of his back. Like he was petting Nagini and did not want to disrupt her scales.

Harry’s heart rate was spiralling down, matching Voldemort’s. His eyes lidded in exhaustion. What was left of him if he could not fight his own body?

If being a Parselmouth meant bowing down to the control of Voldemort constantly, unable to fight his own instincts…

Maybe his own desire for family and belonging was his own downfall.

Harry’s hand had fisted in Voldemort’s robe without his permission, he slowly unclenched it. “ _Good boy,”_ Voldemort praised, catching the falling hand in his own. He made a sound, something like a wordless hiss and Harry felt himself relax a little more.

“ _He’s going to die,”_ Harry whispered into the dark.

“ _A choice he made. Not you._ ”

Harry did not answer, staring listlessly at the heavy drapes enclosing them in the bed, trying not to remember the taste of hot blood in his mouth, how easily his best friend’s father’s flesh had given way under Nagini’s strong jaw.

The reality did not improve after that, with Voldemort taking Harry’s knowledge of Nagini’s attack as permission to no longer hide the worst aspects of his life from Harry. He took part personally in more raids, more torture.

Let the scent coat his skin like the predator he was.

It made Voldemort more blood-thirsty.

And in turn, Harry more angsty. More defiant. More scared. He hissed, flinched and snapped more, actually trying to bite Voldemort at times.

Voldemort constricted around him so tightly after one rude comment, Harry nearly passed out. He didn’t know Voldemort could utilise his limbs with such strength.

It was rather muggle to brawl so, but the efficiency and speed was pure serpentine.

But then, after a time… a numbness seeped into Harry, because he really couldn’t change it. Nor stop it. No matter what he said, no matter what he did, it didn’t stop.

He begged Voldemort to not bring those scents into Harry’s room instead. He received a vicious stinging hex for that.

The only thing he was doing was to make his own life more uncomfortable.

Though Harry truly thought his life should be miserable if his friends’ families, the people on his side were suffering and dying too.

It was made all the worse for Voldemort’s otherwise cloying affections. He brought Harry all the food he could want, tutored him with infinite patience, treated Harry’s distress with a kindly hand, took the tantrums with a surprising amount of grace as he subdued him.

Voldemort seemed to treat the whole situation as though it was a learning curve for Harry. That Harry would bend and see reason before long.

Harry hated it, as much as he craved it.

It was odd to have someone to push back against and have the assurance that they would still be there. Despite the fact it was so wrong.

Then one night, Voldemort came back and Harry could instantly taste blood, fresh and saturated into the black satin that the Dark Lord favoured.

He skittered to his feet instantly inexplicitly panicked, “ _Are you hurt?!”_ he demanded before he caught himself, “ _I mean. I mean… W-who did_ you _hurt?”_

He felt cold. A devastating thrill of betrayal that still managed to cleave him in two even now. He had been concerned about _Voldemort_ first. Genuinely concerned.

To the point, he worried may have offended the man by suggesting he was not able to defend himself.

To the point, the people who he was fighting against – Harry’s people – were not his primary concern.

“ _Hush now, snakelet. I am well,”_ Voldemort smiled, seemingly genuinely pleased at Harry’s response. “ _Come now, it is a cold night. Nagini and you should be in bed.”_

It went unsaid that Voldemort would remain with them, probably read a little to them and inserting surprisingly dry commentary on what he thought was right and wrong.

Harry shook his head, upset. Breath stuttering.

“ _Harry. Enough now,”_ Voldemort scolded, shedding his outer robe and the smell of battle and pain. The offending material disappeared before it could transfer anything to the thick carpet. He stepped forward, pulling Harry in. “ _It’s time you go to bed. It is perfectly natural for you to be conflicted. You should not be so upset with yourself about it.”_ Harry made his standard attempts to wriggle free, but they were without passion. “ _Come. I shall read to you some more,”_ Voldemort continued placidly, picking Harry up as though he weighed nothing.

Harry knew he was still somewhat small for his age, and that Voldemort was more than the average height for a man, but the belittling action made Harry hiss and spit all the more.

Voldemort made no comment on the matter, and instead Harry was unwillingly piled into his bed. Voldemort put a robe around Harry. His own robe conjured from who knows where.

Harry threw the robe off him, tossing the light material to the end of the bed.

Voldemort’s fingers twitched, the desire for violence rising of his skin like a wave. Harry embraced it, coiling down as though to strike at him.

Instead of rising to his challenge, the Dark Lord picked up the robe again and covered Harry with it and then left for a while, probably to exact that violence on someone else.

What if there were prisoners? Harry stilled, but what could he do?

Harry pulled the robe off him, stroppy. Then pulled it back on. Then he threw it off again.

When Voldemort came back hours later, he eyed Harry in amusement, for the boy had thrown off the robe but still clutched at it with his hands.

Voldemort settled next to him on the bed, folding one leg underneath the other as he sat down. “ _You’re doing very well, Harry. I know this is hard.”_ His hand settled in Harry’s hair, he gently shook Harry’s head with his grip _, “No one you knew personally was harmed.”_

Harry tried to burrow down into the bedding more, petulant.

 _“Come closer to me, I can see you trying to taste the air with your face half buried in a pillow.”_ Voldemort pulled Harry up, his nails piercing his skin, curling him into his chest again. “ _See? Taste. I am fine.”_

 _“Of course, you’re a basilisk, who can stand up to you?”_ Harry spat into his neck.

Voldemort’s scent was inordinately pleased, “ _Exactly, my little hatchling.”_ He pressed a lipless kiss to Harry’s crown, “ _Who can stand up to me? Certainly not young Hognoses.”_

#

“ _My little one, come here.”_ Voldemort’s fingers gestured beckoningly. “ _What did Dumbledore tell you about your scar?”_

Harry obediently shuffled over, “ _He said you transferred some of your powers to me on that night.”_

Voldemort smirked, _“Not entirely wrong,”_ he said musingly. Before him was a small box with a few glittering items in there, all with a peculiar appeal to Harry.

“ _What is it?”_ Harry asked, trying to see the items better. Voldemort closed the box with a deliberate finality.

“ _I will tell you later, when you’re ready,_ ” he offered in placation, hands smoothing over the wood caressingly.

Harry felt his mouth sour at the familiar words. Surprisingly, not from Voldemort, but from a much friendlier figure.

One who had failed to find Harry. To save him from the Dark Lord’s grip.

A grip Harry now wondered if he could leave.

“ _Ahh, I see Dumbledore has offered you the same excuses before.”_ Voldemort pulled Harry in closer, “ _I am not like him, Harry.”_ He stroked Harry’s face, as he seemed want to do, _“As soon as I can trust you, I promise I will tell you everything about your scar.”_

Harry gave him a measuring look, full of distrust. Voldemort looked briefly angry, his scent souring before it lightened. “ _Come closer, snakelet. I am not lying to you. Taste my words.”_

Harry frowned; he had been doing that. But Voldemort roped him in, until Harry’s head was pressed against his chest, the thrumming beat of his heart echoing in Harry’s skull.

He was engulfed in Voldemort’s scent in a way he had only been a few times before, when in terrible panic, or anger.

With a clear head it was easier to pick up the differences, the scents that were clinging to the material and the fresher ones on the skin.

Subtleties that Harry wouldn’t have picked up on otherwise. The scent that heralded Voldemort’s thunderous temper and anger were so different from the mild hinderances, the smallest fluctuations that were there on a flesh level.

The way that Voldemort’s irritation was changing to contentedness as Harry rested against him, the barest hint of appetite, a longing for something Harry didn’t know.

“ _You can taste lies from the changes people exude in their breathing and their sweat. Listen to me,”_ Voldemort’s voice engulfed him. _“I promise I will tell you, when I trust you.”_

Voldemort could lie easier than breathing, and he would never trust Harry. Not truly. If the truth was dependent on Voldemort’s trust, then Harry would never know it.

Harry also didn’t neglect to notice that Voldemort did not tell him how to tell what was lie and what was not.

The man would expect him to figure it out by himself, which meant seeking out closer contact with him more and more.

Not just being subjected to touches, not just allowing them when he was in a heightened emotional state, but actually seeking Voldemort out and pressing face into his skin. Tasting.

That made Harry feel deeply uncomfortable.

Perhaps Harry could ask Nagini instead?

Once Voldemort released him, Harry stepped away. The Dark Lord grabbed his jaw before he got out of range, forcing his mouth open like he had that night in the graveyard.

“ _You have a vomeronasal organ like a reptile, not a human – in which it is vestigial – as I am sure you are aware.”_ He pressed his finger against the roof of Harry’s mouth. The explosion of scents and flavours nearly made Harry’s eyes roll. “ _Human’s release so much in their sweat, their oils. Even in small amounts we can detect it. It is something you must train and study to be truly efficient at_. _We, of course, are not immune to it ourselves, but humans at least cannot taste like we can.”_

Voldemort withdrew and returned to his desk. Harry adjusted his jaw awkwardly, try to ignore the fact he had just had Voldemort’s finger in there and the fact he could taste his own flesh, his hair, his bitter worry and sadness. The taste of Nagini so ready to shed her skin…

And under all that? Voldemort himself. And all the complexity that came with his scents.

The Dark Lord rapped the box sharply, “ _This. This here is also why you must learn Occlumency,”_ Voldemort continued, “ _The information is very sensitive and cannot leak into the wrong hands.”_ He hesitated a moment, then spoke carefully, words weighted, _“What I will tell you is this. I made you into a Parselmouth. You were not born as one, your bloodline does not have a single drop of blood that could produce your heritage. On that fateful night, all those years ago, I made you.”_ His mouth curled in that horrid way he had, _“I shaped you in my image.”_

Harry stiffened, unsure of how to feel about that. He didn’t want to be made by Voldemort. But at the same time, he would have been dead in that graveyard and feasted upon by birds if he wasn’t.

He would have been with his parents though.

And Harry had always longed for family.

…Voldemort kept insisting they were family.

They weren’t. They _weren’t_. But he tasted like family. Safety. Power. Protection.

He didn’t make Harry want to hide or play dead anymore. If anything, Harry had begun to want to hide behind him. Trusted in Voldemort’s strength, in _Voldemort_ to protect him. This man who had broken him down, made him feel so weak and dependent.

He didn’t know how to process that.

In fact, Harry couldn’t recall the last time he had puffed out his cheeks…he had to stop himself doing so right at that moment, Voldemort’s amused red eyes trailing the motion.

“ _Little one, what have we said about being conflicted?”_ He asked, beguilingly.

Harry ducked his head, mumbling, “ _It’s okay to feel it. It is part of the process.”_ He looked up at Voldemort through the veil of his lengthening hair, “ _It’ll go away once I’ve accepted my place.”_

Voldemort nodded blandly, “ _That’s right, Harry. And what have I said about accepting your place?”_

_“To take my time. You can wait for me.”_

“ _Yes, we have all the time in the world.”_ Voldemort picked up the mysterious box, smiling down at its heavily warded surface. “ _You have been behaving so well, Harry. Perhaps we can start on some supervised lessons with your wand. Would you like that?”_ The box disappeared, sent to somewhere safe, _“You will always be a little Hognose to me, but let’s see if we can’t get a little venom in that bite.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive any typos, I am very tired :( 
> 
> Would love any feedback - keep safe everyone!


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